


Howl

by jujubiest



Category: Grimm (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:50:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't worry! If you've seen the show you know...Nick isn't actually dead. He's just...gone a little stoneform. ;)</p><p>And these will eventually get longer, hopefully. But for now I'm just posting as soon as I've got the next fully realized moment from my head onto the page.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a typical Tuesday night at Monroe’s: soft, ambient lighting, delicious spicy vegan sausage-asiago tortellini—totally from scratch, hand-folded pasta and everything—a glass of wine from a  _very_ good year, and good old peace and quiet. Solitude. Monroe sighed contentedly; it had been a long time since he’d had the space to just breathe and enjoy.

Once not so long ago, his life was a long stretch of nothing  _but_ space and free time to breathe and enjoy. Yes, he had clocks to repair, obligations to fulfill…but he got to set his own schedule doing something he enjoyed. He preferred it that way…needed it, even. Too much mingling with the masses got his blood running hot. Too much excitement awakened something wild inside that Monroe didn’t care to look at too closely, or think about at all. It was a part of himself he kept tightly reined in, because the handful of times he’d let it run loose, the consequences…

Well. They just didn’t bear thinking about. No, Monroe much preferred his strict regimen of vegan food and Pilates, devoting his attention to his clock repairs and his cello, reveling in the beautiful little nuances and duties of a civilized, if solitary, human life…and staying as removed from his old life and associates as possible. That was how he kept himself sane and everyone else he might meet safe. The last thing he needed was excitement, and he’d had far too much of it over the last year. Ever since Nick Burkhardt—a Grimm, of all things—had walked into his life a little more than a year prior, Monroe’s quiet routine had been shattered completely, replaced with near-daily forays into the darkest corners of the Wesen world, the very corners Monroe had worked so hard to keep himself away from.

The rational part of him thought he ought to resent it, the constant questions and the requests for assistance, the way Nick so thoughtlessly pulled him from what was safe, and good, and known to help him plumb the depths of the legacy that had been thrust upon him unceremoniously upon the death of his only living relative…a Grimm with a history so bloody it gave Monroe chills just to think her name.

There were layers to it like an onion, the reason for Monroe’s continued association with Nick. So many layers of denial and rationalization that he could never quite cut through them all and put a stop to it.

At first it was mostly curiosity. He’d never seen a Grimm before and this one seemed fairly green, relatively harmless. Then, too, he needed to clear his name of a false charge of kidnapping, if he ever wanted the Grimm to leave him in peace. His help on the cases that followed were a grudging concession, now that he’d been found out by the local Grimm, and what choice did he really have? Never mind how much he enjoyed it.

Then at last, it was a favor done for a friend, how could he say no? Even when threatened by Reapers, Monroe couldn’t stop bucking the status quo. He’d never been a status quo kind of guy.

It was a thrill, in his dark heart of hearts, where an untamed animal howled to be let free of its jailer’s chains. His adventures with Nick made the wolf go quiet, the way Pilates and a steady vegan diet never did…sometimes for days on end. It was a compromise: he could satisfy the wolf without risking harm to others, now that he had a Grimm at his shoulder, watching his every move.

Finally, whispered in the back of his mind, so quiet he could almost ignore it:  _penance_. Maybe, if he helped Nick save enough lives, it would make up for the one he had taken.

_But none of that tonight_ , he thought sternly as he sat down in front of his carefully-laid place setting. He needed a break, needed to clear his head and cool his heels. All in all, it was a profound relief to finally have a quiet evening in.

There was a knock at the door.

Monroe sighed heavily. He should have known, he supposed. It was par for the course by now. 

He got up and went to answer the door, schooling his face into a look of mild annoyance for Nick’s benefit. Truth be told? He looked forward to these visits, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Already he could feel his blood humming, senses coming to life, sharpening at the prospect of an adventure…at the approach of the hunt.

He reached for the door, the wolf in his head singing out a high, longing whine to be let loose again. Monroe opened his mouth to deliver a snarky opening salvo about Nick owing him a new door when he wore a hole in the current one.

The whine of the wolf died in his head as he opened the door. He forgot what he was going to say. The smell hit him first, like a sledgehammer: sickly sweet, sharp, and oddly wild. Blood, but not human blood. At least, not pure human. His senses reeled with the rankness of it, his instincts telling him to run away, attack, hide, lash out, everything a gray wash of fear in his mind. Yet his body refused to move, freezing him in the doorway, staring. It took him a moment to really  _see_ what he was looking at.

It was Nick all right, slumped against his doorjamb, skin ashen and head tilted down, eyes staring at nothing and his whole body trembling. He was holding his hands up to his chest, fingers curled inward like claws. They glistened a deep red, thick with fresh blood: the source of the smell that had frozen Monroe like a statue and turned his nerves into live wires.

He wished he hadn’t noticed it now. It made his head swim and his stomach lurch as the realization sank slowly through his panicked haze: Wesen blood. No more lashing, no more attack response: he wanted to retreat. His instincts told him to slam the door, turn on his heel and run straight out the back without stopping or turning around, to keep going until the sharp copper scent of death was far behind him and he was beyond reach of the predator that stank of it. There were very few things that could incite this reaction in a blutbad; he was a predator himself. He did not run for his life. He did the chasing.

His pride and his rational mind managed to tamp down on his instincts, somehow. This was  _Nick_. Nick wasn’t going to attack him. He opened the door a little wider and stepped back, allowing Nick to stumble inside. Monroe closed the door behind him and locked it quickly, turning to assess whether his friend was hurt.

Looking closer under brighter light, Monroe realized Nick didn’t just have blood on his hands. He was  _covered_ in the stuff. It was soaked into his shirt and his jeans, saturating the thick denim fabric. There were flecks on his face, in his  _hair._

“Nick?”

It was all he could do to force the word out. Every instinct he’d ever known was still screaming at him to run. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such a powerful aversion to another creature…but this was  _Nick._ Nick who protected humans and Wesen alike, Nick who was always willing to hear both sides of the story before he started chopping off heads. Nick who sat on his couch with a beer every other night, and dragged him into harrowing life-or-death situations with nothing more than a “please” and a pair of big, lost eyes, and never asked him a single personal question unless prompted, the ass.

“Nick,” he said more firmly, reaching out a careful hand. He laid it on Nick’s shoulder, gentle pressure, just enough for Nick to feel the touch. He was cold, cold enough that it radiated straight through the fabric of his shirt. Nick jerked as if he’d been shocked.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Monroe’s. They were glassy, the shadows underneath them dark enough to be bruises. They looked faraway, empty…almost dead.

“Monroe?” His voice was a cracked whisper, and Monroe felt something inside him twist. He again fought back the urge to crowd Nick back out onto the front stoop and slam the door in his face. He couldn’t, not when the man looked so broken…no matter how terrifying he was in this state.

“Yeah,” he said softly, reaching out his other hand. “Hey, buddy, it’s fine. You’re okay. You’re safe here. I’m gonna clean you up and get you taken care of, but…Nick, man. Can you tell me…what  _happened?_ ”

Instead of answering, Nick pitched forward. Monroe caught him with both arms, feeling the thick warm-blood smell envelop him as he tried to hoist Nick back into a standing position. He wanted to vomit.

“Woah, hey,” he gasped, trying his best not to breathe through his nose. He leaned in, trying to get Nick to look at him, bracing his neck with both hands and willing his eyes to focus. Eventually, half-lidded and hazy green found concerned, frightened brown, and Nick gave Monroe a sleepy little smile that chilled him to the marrow.

“Monroe,” he whispered again, and then he crumpled. Monroe barely managed to catch him again before his head hit the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Monroe dragged Nick inside as quickly and gently as he could manage. He laid him on the floor, careful not to bang his head, and then went back to examine his walkway and front stoop. He grimaced; there were bloody footprints on the pavement, and smeared handprints marking where Nick had stumbled and had to hold himself up in order to keep going: on the mail box, the fence, the paneling on the side of the house to the left of the door.

Nick had likely left a trail of blood all the way here from the scene of the…well, whatever had happened, crime or otherwise. And if Nick _had_ killed someone ( _there’s too much blood,_ his mind whispered, _nothing lives through that much blood loss_ ), they had to protect him. At least, he amended quickly, until they figured out what exactly had happened.

He needed to clean Nick up and make sure he was alright, hopefully wake him and ask him what the hell was going on…but he also needed to ensure that any trail Nick might have left would go cold well before it reached his house.

But he couldn’t do both at once.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number of one of the few people he could trust in this situation.

“Hello?” A man’s voice answered after two rings.

“Hank,” Monroe said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “Listen…Nick just showed up at my house, and he’s…it’s bad. Real bad.”

“I’m on my way,” Hank said, and hung up. Monroe breathed a sigh of relief, and then dialed another number.

“Juliet?” He said as soon as the receiver clicked, before she could even say hello. “It’s Monroe. I need you to pick up Rosalee and head to my house. Nick’s here.”

“Nick? I thought he was working tonight. Is he alright?”

“To be honest? I don’t think so. He showed up _covered_ in blood…not his blood, but it’s everywhere. And he didn’t really say anything, just kinda…passed out on my door step! I’ve brought him inside, but he doesn’t look good. I’ve already called Hank. But I think Nick’s gonna need Rosalee. I’m not sure a regular doctor would know what to do for him.”

“I’ll be right over,” Juliet said, voice tight with concern. And she hung up.

Monroe sighed, relieved that the cavalry was on its way. They could figure this out together…like they did everything else. Just like working a case. _Right. No reason to panic._

Sliding his phone back into the pocket of his sweater, he turned and stepped back inside, trying not to breathe through his nose any more than absolutely necessary.

He hit the switch by the door to turn off the porch light, hoping that would conceal anything Nick might have left on the pavement long enough for Hank to get over here and help him clean up. Then he shut the door, locked it, and went over to where Nick still lay prone on the floor.

Nick’s face was a terrifying shade of gray, the flat color of wet cement. He also seemed…too still. Monroe knelt carefully down by his head and put two uncertain fingers to Nick’s pulse point—

—and jerked them back almost immediately, a strangled sound of horror and disbelief escaping his throat.

Nick’s skin was strangely rigid to the touch, and very cold. Too cold for life.

Nick Burkhardt was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! If you've seen the show you know...Nick isn't actually dead. He's just...gone a little stoneform. ;)
> 
> And these will eventually get longer, hopefully. But for now I'm just posting as soon as I've got the next fully realized moment from my head onto the page.


End file.
